There is a page in the first notebook where the handwriting is not mine.
Same hand. Not mine.

It presses too hard. It underlines things.
It has written the date out in full at the top of a Wednesday in December,
the way you do when you think somebody might read it later.

Fifteen years and four gyms, and that page is the only thing I own
that still remembers what I was like.

The Book of the King — Arrival 43:1